Fracture
by handful of sky
Summary: Joan never imagined that their partnership would be so easily broken.


A/N: This story was originally intended to be the "F" entry in my "A is for ?" series, but it grew well beyond the scope of my typical entries and I felt more comfortable posting it separately. Many, many thanks to CharmingNotDarling for the prompt (and for all the support and encouragement she provided to help see it completed) and to my sister, who applauded my fledgling efforts years ago and helped ensure that there would be more in the future.

Obligatory Disclaimer**: **Not my characters, no infringement is intended.

* * *

**Fracture**

Joan Watson is no one's human shield.

As soon as she realizes that the safety is still engaged on the gun pointed at her head, she lifts her right knee high and then drives her heel down into Philip Carson's instep. The accountant-cum-murderer shrieks loudly and she manages to twist out of his grasp, but then he swings the heavy pistol around directly toward her face. She throws her forearm up to block the blow and realizes a fraction of a second too late that ducking would likely have been a better option.

The crack is audible, and the pain in her arm is huge and sickening. Still, she bought enough time for Bell and Sherlock to close the distance between them. Only when Carson is tackled, disarmed, and handcuffed do they turn their attention back to her.

"See?" Joan gestures at her feet with her good arm and tries for a smile that winds up feeling more like a grimace. "These heels are good for something after all."

Sherlock presses his lips together in a thin line and scrutinizes her for a few long seconds. He doesn't bother asking if she's all right (the answer is patently obvious). In fact, he doesn't speak at all while Bell drives them to the hospital. He simply looks out the window, or at his fingernails, or at the back of Bell's head. Joan takes slow, deep breaths to help deal with the unrelenting throbbing in her forearm and winces every time they hit a pothole.

Fortunately, it's an unusually quiet day in the ER. A resident takes one look at the unnatural bend in her arm and orders immediate pain medication and a trip to radiology. It takes the nurse two tries to get a catheter inserted into her good hand, but once the morphine hits her bloodstream, she finally gets some measure of relief. Bell steps out to take a call and she's left alone with Sherlock for the first time since the incident.

She expected him to be angry—or agitated at the very least—but he sits quietly and impassively in the cheap plastic chair. She doesn't know if it's some misplaced sense of guilt or the effect of the narcotics, but she feels a sudden urge to explain herself.

"He surprised me."

"Undoubtedly." His voice is flat as well. They might as well be discussing the weather or what to have for dinner.

She almost wants him to be furious with her, to rail against her for taking too many chances, for not doing enough to prepare herself, for getting too close to Carson. This indifference has an eerie calm-before-the-storm vibe.

Bell comes back chuckling. "They had to take Carson to Presbyterian instead of holding. Apparently our girl here did some serious damage to that foot."

"_Our girl_ got extremely lucky," Sherlock says sharply.

"Sometimes you make your own luck." The detective looks at her pointedly. "You kept your wits and saw an opening. That's what matters."

Her chin lifts a little at the approval in Marcus's voice and she gives him a grateful smile.

"I have to get back to the precinct." The detective turns back toward Sherlock. "You'll stay here with her and get her home." It's not phrased as a question.

"Of course." Sherlock dismisses Bell with an impatient wave of his hand and steps away from her as the radiology techs arrive.

Twenty minutes later, the attending shows her the results: both the radius and ulna are broken a few inches above the wrist. She stares at the x-ray as the doctor drones on about her treatment plan. An orthopedist is on his way to set and splint the arm. In a few days, when the swelling goes down, she'll get a cast. Six weeks if she's lucky. Eight or more if she's not.

She has no desire to watch Sherlock watch her arm being set, so she sends him out under the pretext of fetching her a cold drink. He gives her a look that indicates that she's not fooling anyone, but he goes quietly.

After an additional bolus of morphine and several uncomfortable minutes during which her bones are pulled back into alignment, her arm is sandwiched between sheets of plaster and gently wrapped in thick layers of cotton and elastic bandages. She's given a sling and settled into a wheelchair and, while the candystriper pushes her toward the exit, Sherlock reappears at her elbow. His hands are empty.

"You didn't bring my soda," she complains.

He shrugs. "You didn't really want one."

Some small, petulant part of her wants to argue, but she lets it slide. When the candy striper leaves to flag down a cab, she says, "Thank you for staying."

"You are still, for the nonce, my responsibility. I will not shirk that burden."

What the hell's gotten into him? "Is that what I am to you now? A burden?" She uses her good arm to help push herself out of the wheelchair and pivots angrily around to face him, but her righteous indignation fades quickly as the edges of her vision blur and her knees begin to buckle.

"As long as you are that stoned, you are." He scoops her up into his arms and grunts loudly as he deposits her back into the chair. "You're a good deal heavier than you look."

"Maybe you're a good deal weaker than you think," she snaps back.

His jaw clenches and she knows she's hit a sore spot. "Of that, I have no doubt." He helps her into the cab and gives the driver directions to the brownstone.

The morphine dulls the pain, but it also dulls everything else: colors, appetite, even the sharpest edge of her anger. When they arrive, she's still unsteady on her feet, so she reluctantly takes the arm he offers her and lets him help her up the stairs and into her room. She kicks off her heels and sinks gratefully onto her bed, maneuvering one of her pillows to her side to prop her arm on.

Sherlock settles himself into her armchair, crosses his legs, and begins to play with his phone.

"You can go," she tells him. Her eyelids are getting heavy and she wants nothing more right now than to take a nap.

"They said you weren't to be left alone for the first twenty-four hours. That interval elapses in roughly twenty-three hours and twenty minutes."

So she gets to put up with him shadowing her for an entire day. Awesome. "Do what you want," she mumbles. "I'm going to sleep." And she does.

* * *

She dozes fitfully throughout the afternoon and early evening. It's full dark when she wakes abruptly. The morphine has worn off and her stomach rolls with nausea. She awkwardly levers herself up to a seated position and tries to orient herself.

"I was beginning to think that you were going to sleep the entire night away," Sherlock says as he gets to his feet and stretches. "Nature calls," he says as he makes a beeline for the bathroom. "Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

"Sherlock, wait—"

It's too late. He's already ensconced himself in there. She resorts to using breathing techniques learned in yoga to try to control the nausea and wonders if throwing up in her trashcan would qualify as something stupid. Fortunately, he gets out quickly enough so that she doesn't have to find out.

After she splashes some water on her face and rinses her mouth, she feels much better. Significantly steadier on her feet than she was earlier, she decides to venture downstairs in search of a snack to settle her stomach. Before she can take a single step down, however, he's at her side, taking a firm grip on her good arm.

"Don't want you tumbling down and breaking the other one, now do we?"

"I was doing fine on my own," she insists.

"Of course you were," he says in the same tone of voice that people use to placate recalcitrant three-year olds.

Arguing with him would take up energy that she just doesn't have right now and they're practically halfway down as it is, so she grinds her teeth together and lets him help her the rest of the way.

He fixes himself a bowl of cereal and eats it at the table. Once she's had a piece of toast and a cup of tea, she feels almost human again. The activity's woken up some of her nerve endings though and she takes the bottle of Midol from her purse. She struggles with the stupid child safety cap, which resists all her efforts to open it one-handed.

"Is your body intent on adding insult to injury?" he asks drolly. "I should've thought you had another four days at the least."

She knows she screwed up today, but his passive-aggressive bullshit is getting really old, really fast. She hands him the bottle. "Can you open this for me?" He looks at her expectantly, and she forces out a grudging, "Please."

"Of course, Watson. You had only to ask." He pries the lid off easily and she shakes the contents out onto the table. Most of the tablets are, in fact, Midol, but there are two Vicodins as well. She takes them both with the rest of her tea.

"Under my nose all this time," he observes.

"Just one of the many things you dont know about me." She knows she's being petty, but she can't bring herself to care. "I'm going back to bed." He makes to stand up. "Alone," she adds firmly as she uses the bannister to help her up the stairs.

She locks her door for good measure and sleeps the sleep of the deeply drugged. The sun is well up by the time she wakes to see him sitting cross-legged on her floor, back propped against the jamb of her open door while he reads a paperback.

"You picked my lock," she observes.

"I didn't have to." He pulls a key out of his pocket and jingles it without bothering to look up at her.

"Why are you here?" she asks.

"I promised to babysit you for another four hours and..." he glances at his watch quickly, "fourteen minutes."

She never changed before passing out last night, and she crosses slowly to her wardrobe to choose some new clothes. Yoga pants and a loose blouse should work. "I'm a doctor. Don't you think I can manage my own care?"

He turns the page. "I think there's a reason that your sort make the worst patients."

"Thanks for that vote of confidence," she says wryly.

"You'll get my confidence when you've earned it."

Exasperated, she kicks the door shut and is gratified when he has to scramble out of its way. She props a chair under the doorknob for good measure before changing clothes. Afterward, she heads down to the kitchen. She must have telegraphed her mood pretty well, because he doesn't try to help her this time.

Joan is genuinely hungry, but there aren't a lot of choices to be had. She finally settles for cereal, but, of course, there are no clean bowls anywhere. She grabs a mug instead, shakes some cereal into it, and tops it off with milk. It was easy enough to fix, but it's practically impossible to eat. She holds the mug awkwardly, juggles the spoon, and finally loses her tenuous grip. The cup drops to the floor and shatters, and she fights back tears of frustration.

"No use crying over spilt milk," Sherlock says from the shadows, "but I rather liked that mug."

She picks up the larger pieces, tosses them into the trash, and struggles to clean up the remnants one-handedly. He doesn't help.

She makes herself as comfortable as possible on the couch and studiously ignores him while she reads a trashy paperback and waits for the remaining few hours of her forced supervision to elapse. The time finally runs out, and the doorbell rings as if on cue. Sherlock answers it, and a few minutes later, the smell of Mongolian chicken fills the brownstone. She doesn't bother asking if he ordered anything for her.

It's a relief to not be followed as she heads back upstairs to the bathroom. Out of stronger meds, she takes three ibuprofen before studying her reflection in the mirror. She can't do much about the dark smudges below her eyes or the bulky bandages around her arm, but her hair is another matter, and she can't put it off any longer. Joan grabs her hair products and tucks the bottles into the sleeve of the sling before throwing a towel over her shoulder and heading downstairs to the kitchen.

He's sitting at the table, reading the newspaper and eating his lunch. She has to clear the sink before she can use it and swears under her breath as Sherlock watches her clumsily stack the dirty dishes off to the side.

Joan hunches over awkwardly and manages to wet her hair without too much difficulty, but when she tries to straighten up to find her shampoo, she realizes that part of her hair refuses to leave the sink. She tugs at the hank gently with her hand, but it doesn't budge. Some of the strands dropped into the drain and are wrapped around the blades of the disposal. She reaches into the orifice with her left hand and tries to ignore the slimy, crunchy chunks of former foodstuffs that she finds there. The strands are wrapped too tightly around the blunt blades for her to be able to free them. She tries a couple of experimental tugs to see if she might be able to pull herself free, but the pain makes tears spring to her eyes.

She promised herself she wouldn't ask him for anything, but her resolve dies a quick death at the thought of being stuck in this position for hours.

"Sherlock? A little help here?"

"Of course." He goes to a kitchen drawer and she hears him rummage around for a moment. Then he presses something into her hand. It's a pair of scissors. How long is he going to keep punishing her? And maybe more importantly, how long is she going to take it?

She slams the scissors back onto the counter and tries again. After a few minutes' effort, she manages to free most of the caught hair. The remaining few snap without too much resistance as she strands up straight and knuckles her back gratefully. There are fragments of eggshells, coffee grounds, and other less identifiable things still caught in her hair, but she doesn't care. She crosses the kitchen, leans over him, and slaps her palm onto the tabletop to get his attention.

He raises bored eyes to hers. "Is there something else you need?"

"Yes," she grinds out. "I need to understand where we stand. You've been condescending before, but never cruel. When Irene was back, before we knew who she was, you were willing to drop everything to take care of her. Not only do I have to do everything myself, you barely even look at me. Did she mean that much more to you than I do?"

His jaw drops open and he blinks furiously for a few seconds. If she was fishing for a reaction, she finally got one.

"I do not suffer fools gladly, Watson. That should hardly be a revelation for you."

It's not a revelation, but it's the first time he's openly insulted her like this. His opinion of her is too important for her to not feel a sharp pang of disappointment.

"And yet," he continues, "I have made myself one by allowing you to remain in a situation that has caused you to suffer grievous bodily injury."

"You _allowed_ me to stay here? Sherlock, are you forgetting that I _chose_ to work with you? What happened wasn't your fault—"

"Of _course_ it's my fault!" he shouts, rocketing out of his seat so quickly that the chair tips over and crashes loudly to the floor. "You could have been shot; should I be grateful that you were merely pistol-whipped?" He tilts his head back and squeezes his eyes shut tightly. "I close my eyes, and I see it unfolding over and over. I can still hear the impact, and I remain powerless to prevent it happening again. It could have been your face, Watson. It could have been your _skull_."

He opens his eyes again, and she's shocked to see tears in them as he reaches toward her. The pads of his fingertips ghost over her cheekbone before moving lightly across her temple and then pulling away again quickly, as if burned by the brief contact. "You could be dead, or in a vegetative state. It's not safe for you to be with me, to do the type of work I do, and yet, I'm not strong enough to put a stop to it. I find the situation to be..." he swallows hard, "intolerable."

And, just like that, she suddenly gets it. He isn't punishing her. He cares for her, even more than she realized, and he's been trying to protect her by driving her away from him. _Idiot_.

"And you really thought that if you started acting like a complete jackass, I would just leave on my own? Because that's worked _so_ well up until now."

"Your sarcasm is not unwarranted," he admits, "but I felt that my options were limited."

She remembers now what he told her when he was still trying to get her to take self-defense training. _If anything ever happened to you, I'm not sure I could forgive myself. _

She grabs his chair, re-rights it, and motions him back into it before taking the seat across from him. "I need you to understand that I stayed for purely selfish reasons. Sherlock, I want to learn just as much as you want to teach, and I like putting the bad guys away. I'm here because you—not the guy on those stupid beer commercials—are the most interesting man in the world, even though you're sometimes the most annoying as well. I know the risks, and I'm willing to take them, so the only decision is yours. Do you want me to leave?"

His expression is wistful. "If I were to say 'yes', would you believe me?"

"No, but I'd go. I have too much pride to stay where I'm not wanted."

"Not wanted," he repeats softly to himself as he scrubs at his face with his palms. He lowers his hands and his eyes are bloodshot, but his gaze is firm. "Stay," he gestures at the splint on her arm, "at least until that bloody thing is off and I can look at you again without remembering."

She exhales softly. If nothing else, she's bought at least a few more weeks with him. "Okay, then." She lifts the goo-covered strands of her hair gingerly and goes to rinse them off under the faucet. "Looks like I'm going to have to make an appointment to have it cut it anyway, though. I can't do this on a regular basis."

"It appears that you can't do it at all," he says snidely.

"Rub it in, why don't you." She flicks the water droplets from her fingertips at him.

"Actually, I intend to do just that," he says as he reaches for her shampoo. "How much should I use?"

The thought of him running his fingers through her hair brings a sudden surge of something that feels more than a little like desire, and she turns away from him again just in time to hide her reaction. "As much as I appreciate the thought, we're just postponing the inevitable. It's going to be weeks, Sherlock."

He ignores her and squirts a quarter-sized dollop into his palm. "That enough?"

He seems wedded to the notion. She surrenders to the inevitable and thinks about the goo in the disposal. "Maybe a little more."

His words may have been harsh earlier, but his hands are gentle. His fingertips rub tiny circles into her scalp and she has to bite at her lip to keep herself from vocalizing her pleasure. If his hands are so good at this, what else might they...She clamps down ruthlessly on the thought and says, "After you rinse that out, I'll need the detangler. You'll need to use a little more than the shampoo."

He follows her instructions to the letter and wraps her hair in her towel when he's finished.

"That feels so much better," she says, patting her hair dry.

He picks up the large-toothed comb from the counter.

"May I?" he asks.

She nods her consent.

He bends to the task, working in a silence which, for the first time since her injury, feels comfortable. His touch is light and sure, and he unravels the tangles without any tugging or tearing. When he's finally satisfied with the job he's done, he takes note of the time. "Its been nearly a half hour since we started," he says, shocked. "I honestly had no idea it would take this long."

"I know, I know. Long hair is absurdly impractical."

"So are Fabergé eggs," he says quietly. "Doesn't make them any less spectacular."

He turns back to his barely-touched lunch and picks up his chopsticks again. After a moment's hesitation, he slides the box so that it rests on the table between them before fetching her a fork.

He picks at the food, taking one bite for every two or three of hers, and, when the carton is empty, she smiles guiltily. "Guess I was hungrier than I thought."

"No matter," he says lightly. "You need the energy for healing. Speaking of which, I have a few books I'd like you to read during your convalescence."

She follows him into the library and listens attentively as he picks out a handful of new titles for her. His eyes still shy away from her injury, but he's already strayed so far out of his comfort zone today that she can't bring herself to mind.

She gets a real cast three days later and the following weeks pass quickly. They solve four cases and work together as well as they ever have, maybe even better. No matter where he is in the brownstone, as soon as she starts the tap running in the kitchen, he appears at her side. He washes, dries, detangles, brushes, and, on one very memorable occasion, braids her hair. And not once does she have to ask for his help.

* * *

When she gets ready to go back to the orthopedist, he asks to go with her.

At her questioning glance, he merely says, "It would reassure me, to some extent, to know that the damage is healing properly."

The doctor pronounces her sound enough to remove the cast. She expected the muscle atrophy, but not the chapped, sloughing skin or the odor of six weeks' worth of sweat. The baby wipes they wash her down with don't do nearly enough.

On the ride home, she catches him sneaking glances at her now-bare arm. "Do you see me differently now?"

"You could say that," he says thoughtfully. "It's good to see you unencumbered."

When they get back home, she heads directly upstairs. "I'm going to take the longest shower of my life, so if you decide to get dinner, order me some Pad Thai."

She grabs some fresh clothes, takes them to the bathroom, and and turns the taps on to get the warm water flowing.

There's a hesitant knock on the door, and she opens it to find him there holding the hair products she forgot in the kitchen.

"Thought you might need these," he says, tucking them gently into her hands.

"Thanks for bringing them up."

"I'm going to miss it, you know." He reaches for her hair and wraps several strands around his fingers.

The last few weeks have been full of his touch—not just their evening ritual, but the feel of his hand in the small of her back as he opens a cab door for her, or the light brush of his fingers against hers as he hands her a cup of coffee. She wonders if those are going to come to an end as well, and finds that the thought brings a rush of sadness.

"Me too." Steam begins to fill the room, but he remains stubbornly in the doorway, hands still caressing her hair, his presence inextricably entwined with hers.

"Looks like the water's hot," she observes without making a move toward the faucet.

"So it is." He hums low in his throat. "Do you want me to leave?"

He borrowed her words from several weeks ago; it's only fair that she borrow some of his. "If I said yes, would you believe me?"

"Hardly. You're a wretched liar." He gently releases her hair and drops his arm to his side as he leans against the doorframe. "Tell me to go if you truly mean it. Far be it from me to intrude where I'm not wanted."

She snorts softly. "It's _exactly_ like you to intrude where you're not wanted."

He shrugs and averts his eyes, and his expression is as close as Sherlock could ever come to sheepish.

The last few weeks have forced her to examine their relationship and its unlikely evolution in a new light. If she lets him leave, they will go back to what they were before her injury. During that hellish first day, a return to their status quo was like a pipe dream. Now, it would be more like a nightmare. She was too stubborn to give up then, and she'll be damned if she does it now.

She takes his hand in hers and squeezes it lightly before moving it to the doorknob. "No more standing on the threshold, Sherlock. In or out, and I need you to be sure because if we start...whatever it is that this could turn into, this time _I'm_ the one that's not strong enough to put a stop to it."

He never hesitates; he just steps toward her, moving well inside her personal space as he kicks the door shut behind them. He leans in even closer, and his breath is warm against her ear as he takes the bottles from her hands and sets them down beside the tub. "You'll never have to. Now take off your clothes."

She's surprised at his audacity and even more surprised at her own as her hands move unerringly to do as he asked. He backs himself into a corner so that he can have a broader vantage point as she strips away her clothing. He sees everything—that's his gift—but he's never before regarded her as anything other than a companion, friend, partner, or protégée. It's only fitting for him to finally become aware of her as a woman.

Joan gets down to her bra and panties, which is, in her admittedly limited experience, the point at which most men want to jump in to help, but he doesn't move. She strips off the last scraps of fabric by herself and looks at him expectantly. "Well?"

He appears to be literally navel-gazing. "Are you waiting for me to tell you that you're beautiful? Might as well tell the sun that it's warm."

It's the oddest compliment, but it's uniquely him, and her skin flushes at his appreciation.

He notices, of course, and adds in a gentler tone, "Some things simply _are_, Watson, and I readily accept them as such. One need not deduce something that is so clearly a given."

He continues to run his eyes over her. Not used to feeling like she's on display, she asks nervously, "What about you? I think you have me at a disadvantage."

"When my eyes have had their fill of you, my hands will have a turn." His fingers twitch with anticipation, and then he raises his eyes and meets her gaze very deliberately. "Then my mouth."

She feels liquid heat pool low in her belly. "I think I'd like that."

"Come now, Watson," he chides, "don't be equivocal."

"You're the one who taught me to reserve judgement until I have all the facts at my disposal," she teases.

"Then allow me to make you a believer." Two quick strides, and then he reaches for her in exactly the same way that he did during their first conversation in the kitchen. He strokes her cheek tentatively with his thumb as his fingertips slowly slide up past her hairline.

She turns her face into his hand, presses a light kiss into his palm to prove to him that she is still here, still whole, still his.

He accepts the caress and she takes advantage of the moment to unbutton his shirt and pull it free from his pants.

Before she has a chance to touch him, though, he takes her shoulders lightly and turns her away from him and toward the tub. "Get in. I'll join you in a moment."

She almost argues with him, but after so many weeks of sponge baths and quick almost-showers with her cast wrapped in plastic and held carefully out of harm's way, the hiss of the shower is a virtual siren's call. Joan steps into the tub, closes her eyes and turns into the spray, reveling in the warm sting of the droplets against her skin. The onslaught of water doesn't wash away the memory of his gentle touch; if anything, it reinforces it.

Just when she makes up her mind to turn back to watch him, he steps in behind her, settling one hand firmly on her hip and holding her in place as the other gently kneads the muscles at the base of her neck. He slowly works his way down one side of her back and up the other, his fingertips every bit as inquisitive and intuitive as his mind. He experiments with touching her in different ways, sometimes firm, sometimes light, oftentimes ticklish, always tender.

She leans back into him, dropping her head back to rest on his shoulder and moaning as he finally slides his hands forward around her and begins to explore the front of her body. He plays her like his violin, using his skill, deftness, and passion to elicit as many sounds from her as possible. His mouth must be impatient, because his fingers are still busy exploring the hollows of her hipbones when he traces the nerve from her neck to the point of her shoulder with his tongue. She shivers abruptly at the dual sensations of the scrape of stubble against her skin and the rapidly cooling spray, and then he shuts the water off, takes her to bed, and warms her up all over again.

He remembers every reaction he got from her in the shower; if the touch of his fingers brought a sigh before, he revisits the same place with the flat of his tongue. If she gasped at a light pinch, he tries it again, this time with his teeth. As always, he's single-minded in purpose, and she has to tug firmly on an ear to finally bring him in close enough for a kiss. This touch is less deft, less sure on his part, and when she finally drags her mouth away from his, she's surprised to see uncertainty in his eyes. She'd forgotten for a moment that he's not used to attaching emotional significance to sex.

Joan rubs a thumb lightly across his lips. "You've proved your point," she smiles. "I'm a believer." She nudges his hip with hers meaningfully. "But I think we've waited long enough. I need you, Sherlock."

He gives her a slow, sweet smile. "Oh, my dear Watson, you had only to ask."

Later, when they're spent and boneless and on the verge of sleep, he gathers her against his chest. "You said something a few weeks ago," he says, "about being unwilling to stay where you are not wanted. You should know that I passed the point of mere _want_ months ago. Now I find that I _crave_ you with every fibre of my being. Your body, your soul, your intellect—they astonish me. I want all of you, all the time."

Given the source, it's the most profound profession of love she can imagine. "You have me," she says gently. "I have you. We have each other."

"High time." He lifts a lock of her hair to his lips. "High time."

_fin_


End file.
